


The Protector's Rest

by riththewarluid



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drinking, Eventual Smut, F/M, Found Family, Rediscovering onself, Some angst, Some serious self hatred, Tavern setting, dealing with depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6722176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riththewarluid/pseuds/riththewarluid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall struggles with his relationship with the Inquisitor after the death of Corypheus, and decides to leave the Inquisition and her to be alone and start his life over one final time. But while finally remaking himself as Thom Rainier, he finds that his friends from the Inquisition aren't quite ready to let him slip away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I have written in a long time, I am very sorry for any editing mistakes. Please give me any constructive feedback, as I am eager to improve my writing abilities!

Running a hand over his beard, Blackwall peered curiously up at the building before him. It was a rather unappealing shade of grey in the early morning light, and looked rather like it would come apart with the lightest gust of wind. A rickety, ancient toad of a building. Why he ever thought that coming to look at _this_ pile of junk was a good idea, he wasn’t sure.

“Beauty, eh?” came a rusty voice from behind him, and he turned to look at the wispy man who walked up to the front door. _He looks as ancient as the building_ thought Blackwall briefly, and winced as the man slapped the aging wood of the doorway, half expecting the damn place to fall down. “She’s been empty since those cursed Darkspawn came. Killed the owner they did!” the old man crowed, entirely too cheerful for an early morning. “Want to see the inside?”

Not waiting for an answer, he pushed open the front door which gave forth a rusty scream, slicing through the cool morning air. He seemed entirely unbothered by the racket and bustled into the main room, Blackwall in rather unwilling tow. The man leaned over to lovingly clean some dust from the bannister of the stairs to the upper levels, as if the entire room wasn’t completely covered in it. It was a disaster. No one had covered any of the furniture, and everything had been made the same grey of dust and disuse. It looked rather too much like the outside of the poor building. Blackwall sighed, scratching his beard once more. The man was grinning at him in anticipation, his tongue pressed up against the hole made by a missing tooth. “Beauty, eh?” he repeated. 

Blackwall cleared his throat. “I’m sure she was.” He walked to the little inn’s bar counter, his feet puffing up dust with every step, to run a hand over the wooden top. To the building’s credit, the bar seemed to made of thick, warm colored wood, and a quick dust over the stools and chairs revealed the same. The same kind of wood in that tavern in Skyhold where he’d spent so many hours with friends. _Passed_ friends, he told himself sternly. Still there was something about the little room that kept his interest. Something told him under the dust and grime he’d find a cozy room that would be warm and welcoming once that fireplace had been cleaned and lit. The toad had good bones, though he wasn’t sure it would ever truly be beautiful. 

He turned to the old man, still grinning and sticking his tongue out through his teeth. “Hertford, was it?” 

“Aye, but everyone calls me by my first name Ulrich, so you can do the same.” His grin got even wider, and his tongue wiggled. “What do you say? Yer note said you were interested in buying, and I’m keen to see this place be open once more. They used to have the best beer.” 

Blackwall smiled, reaching for the heavy bag of coins at his belt. He’d found it next to his pillow one day, after a long night steeped deep in alcohol with Sera, in which he faintly remembered drunkenly proposing they open a tavern together. 

“Think sh’of it, Shera,” he’d slurred at her, gesturing grandly with one big hand while she giggled at him sloshing beer on the table. “Fushead and Beardy, getting drunk for a living. No more blashted war, no more blashted Inquishishon.” He took a long drink from his mug. “No more blashted Inquishitor,” he’d belched, smacking his now empty mug down on the table and leaning his forehead onto one hand. “ _Damn_ her.” She’d stopped giggling then, maybe ordered him another beer or just patted him awkwardly on the back. Somehow she’d gotten him back to his bed in the hayloft. When he’d woken up with a splitting headache and gritty eyes past noon the following day the first thing he’d noticed - after promptly vomiting over the side of his bed, that is - was the purse and the little note that read “For moving on,” in uneven script with a crude drawing of what looked like a building but could have also been a misshapen horse, and signed Fuzzhead. 

He rolled the bag through his fingers, looking around the dusty tavern once more. Weak sunlight was pouring through some of the slatted wood that boarded up the window, making stripes on the worn floor. “How many rooms upstairs?” he asked.

“Six, plus two extra down here, with a basement for plenty of storage. There’s a mighty generous kitchen in the back as well, and even a stable out back.” Ulrich sucked his teeth for a moment. “She obviously needs some work put into her, so I will knock the price down a bit. Especially for someone from the Inquisition.” The grin flashed back as Blackwall swallowed. 

“And you really have no other options here in town?” 

“Aye, unless you want to be far away from potential customers. And she used to be a favorite among locals before the Blight, yer likely to get customers very fast.” 

Blackwall grimaced as a rat skittered down the stairs and out the still open front door, and took a deep breath of the musty air. He’d told them all he wanted to leave to do something like this, that he needed to end his time trekking all over Thedas. Saving the world from unstoppable evil was well and good, but he was ready to be done. _You’re running away again_ came an unbidden voice, lilting and light and hurt. _You’re running away from Thom Rainier again and you’re running away from me_. Maybe he was a little bit, maybe he was still itching in his skin to be someone that he knew, deep down, that he was not. He doubted anyone was truly sad to see him leave Skyhold once again. 

It wouldn’t do to break his heart like that and then not make good on his goals. 

“I’ll take it,” he said gruffly, yanking the money pouch off his belt and tossing it to Ulrich who caught it handily. “Leave me whatever is leftover from your price, you hear?”

“Of course! Er, since we’re doing business and I have to draw up papers, what’s you’re name?” 

“Black-” Blackwall responded immediately, easily, before catching himself. _You’re running away from Thom Rainier again_. He licked his lips anxiously, and spoke very slowly. “Rainier. You can call me Rainier.” 

Ulrich took two great strides to pump Blackwall’s hand, his bony fingers remarkably strong and vigorous. “A pleasure, Rainier! I look forward to visiting her once she’s ready to open.” Dropping Rainier’s hand, he briskly counted out his price and dropped the rest of the pouch onto one of the tables in a puff of dust. Dropping the shiny coins into his pocket, he marched to the front door, before turning back to Blackwall who had started rubbing his face tiredly once again. “Rainier, say, what’s her new name to be?” 

“The Protector’s Rest,” he replied immediately, unthinkingly. The name surprised him slightly, and he hadn’t really given it any thought before but felt right on his tongue. “I’ll call it The Protector’s Rest.”

“A fine name,” Ulrich said, and with a wave of his hand, he pulled the front door with a hearty tug and left Blackwall alone in the shadowy room. The building shuddered with the bang of the door, and Blackwall held his breath as dust filtered down from the ceiling and some plastered chunks crumbled off the walls around the door frame.

What had he gotten himself into?


	2. Chapter 2

It had taken weeks, _weeks_ , of hard work, but the inn had finally started coming together. Blackwall had spent the first day of his owning the toad stripping away all the boards over its grimy windows, cursing his foolishness at leaving the Inquisition, at buying such a shit hole piece of property, at his own damn idiocy in his life. He didn’t start to feel better until he thoroughly cleaned the main room of the inn, opening all the windows and flapping about with a dust cloth in an attempt to dislodge the years of build up. 

Next came the carpentry and repairs, and he worked every day replacing every rickety and cracked piece of wood that groaned in the inn. Locals started to poke their heads in as he worked, offering greetings and messages of excitement at the opening of The Protector’s Rest. Ulrich stopped by every day, sometimes bringing bits of bread and cheese to share with Blackwall when he rested, other times a dingy clay bottle of beer. The old man was a talkative one, but Blackwall found he didn’t mind the company. Ulrich’s stories about the inn kept his brain occupied while he sawed, sanded and polished for hours. Replastering the walls took even more time, and had Blackwall precariously perched on ladders and hanging out of windows much more than he ever wanted.

Finally he was able to sit at a little corner of the bar, a lone candle illuminating the now shiny wood and his own thick fingers as they grasped a bottle of fiery alcohol. It had been left outside the front door, no doubt by Sera who had threatened to spy on him while he was settling in. That night was the first time the inn began to feel like home, and it started to look a little less toady.

The Protector’s Rest was set to open on a crisp autumn day. By then the locals of Redcliffe were used to Blackwall, and he was accustomed to being greeted by warm smiles and waves as he walked to the market. He liked the town very much, and enjoyed his time in the market listening to the vendors’ gossip and getting to know his neighbors. It was easy to keep up to date on the Inquisition through the whispers of traders and merchants in the bustling center of town. 

On the day of the opening he roused himself early to get shopping done for that evening’s meal. He had no clue what to expect - somehow despite all the weeks of preparing the inn, he never actually considered what it would be like to run one. How many people would he be feeding? Who would actually come? How much should he charge? For the first time in a long time, he’d truly felt nervous. 

He rolled off the little pad he’d been using as a bed and grumbled, pushing his long hair out of his face and scruffing his beard. “Damn,” he muttered, using the wall to pull himself up onto his feet and stretching his arms up toward the ceiling of the back room he called his own. His spine cracked and popped grumpily. “I’m too old for this shit.” Jerking a shirt over his chest, he slipped on his boots and went out into the inn, drumming his fingers restlessly on the counter of the bar. 

The night before he’d been up late, drawing lists of things he still needed to buy. Only two of the rooms upstairs had beds, and only one of them actually had sheets. He had been in contact with a merchant who was supposed to deliver large casks of beer and cider to him sometime in the afternoon. He had a big pot to make some stew in, and a varied collection of bowls and spoons and forks, but little else. 

“First things first...” he muttered, squinting at his list. “Parsnips, rabbits, onions, carrots, potatoes...” He stuffed the paper into the waist band of his pants, stretching once more and wincing as his shoulders popped, before heading outside. “Thank the Maker for small mercies,” he breathed before leaning over the well that was conveniently outside his door in the middle of the small square that his inn squatted on. 

“I knew you were mad for buying her, but I didn’t think you were mad enough to talk to yerself,” came the rusty voice of Ulrich from next to the well. Not bothering to raise his head, Blackwall chuckled loudly.

“Good morning to you too,” he said as he splashed the frigid well water over his face. “Best be careful, Ulrich, or I won’t serve you any beer tonight.” 

Ulrich wheezed out a laugh, clapping Blackwall on the back with a bony hand. “Rainier, my friend, you owe me too much beer to deny me tonight.” He looked earnestly at Blackwall’s face. “You all set for the grand opening? Anything I can do to help?” 

“Aye, Ulrich, as ready as I’ll ever be.” His lips split into a wide grin. “No help needed from you except to bring your friends this evening.” Blackwall wiped off the water from his face into his shirt, and stroked back his damp hair with his hands. “Just have to buy supplies now so I can feed some food with all that booze tonight.” 

Taking that as an invitation to follow Blackwall to the market and back, Ulrich practically bounced along beside him as he bought as many vegetables, meats, and breads he assumed he’d need for the evening. It wasn’t until they were wandering home, Blackwall piled high with parcels and Ulrich helpfully carrying nothing at all, that Ulrich ceased his constant prattle. He dug his fingers into Blackwall’s arm, bringing him to a halt on the grimy cobblestones next to a gathering of gossips. Ulrich smiled his strange grin, his tongue glistening, and poked his head into the group to crow about the opening of The Protector’s Rest. 

Blackwall sighed, watching him chatter away with the other eager busybodies, and shifted his parcels around in his arms. He would rather be headed back to the inn, to chop and cook and get the great fireplace he’d worked so hard on cleaned up and ready for the evening, than sit there with all his groceries teetering in his arms. It seemed like ages before Ulrich was ready to leave, but leave he finally did, his tongue wiggling through its usual hole. The old man’s eyes were twinkling with new secrets, but Blackwall wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking what they were. He was more interested in protecting people’s privacy than his aged friend. 

Ulrich lasted until they had finally reached The Protector’s Rest and Blackwall had unloaded all his parcels and was preparing vegetables for the pot that was beginning to heat in the kitchens. He was fidgeting on one of the barstools, peering into the kitchen and clacking his teeth together. 

“You’ll never guess who passed through Redcliffe yesterday,” he called suddenly, trying to sound innocent. Blackwall smiled down at the parsnips. 

“Andraste herself?” he chuckled.

“Close enough!” Ulrich cried happily. “The Inquisitor! And some of her companions! Just passing through apparently, on their way to Denerim or Kirkwall or some other place. Who cares! They’re camped just outside the town, so I hear. Isn’t that exciting?”

Blackwall grit his teeth, and chopped harder. “I s’pose,” he grunted.

“Did you know the Inquisitor when you worked for the Inquisition?” 

“In a way.” _Intimately, and in many ways_. He sighed, scraping the finished vegetables into the pot. “She is a very busy woman, and didn’t always have time for the likes of me.”

Ulrich stared at him, his eyes distrusting. “I hear she’s very beautiful, for an elf. If you’re into that sort of thing.” He saw Blackwall’s ears turn a delicate shade of red as he grunted and started hacking up a rabbit for the stew. 

“I s’pose,” he bit out once more, taking a particularly nasty jab at the meat on his cutting board. Ulrich face grinned, before he hopped off the stool and dusted off his pants. He’d wait until the new innkeeper was deeper in his cups before trying to get that particular story out of him.

“Until tonight, Rainier! Cook well!” 

Blackwall only sighed as Ulrich slammed the newly oiled front door shut.

###### 

The sun was beginning the set and still no one had arrived at the inn. Blackwall was pacing across the floor, twisting his hands through his hair or into his belt, sighing through his mustache. Everything seemed ready. His stew smelled decent, bread was cut into thick slices to soak up soup and booze alike. His new barrels of beer were carefully stacked down in the cool basement, with one open behind the bar. The fireplaces were blazing, and The Protector’s Rest finally looked the part.

If only there actually had been patrons.

Blackwall grit his teeth, and stalked behind the bar to grab a mug and filled it with the new frothy beer. It would be infuriating, embarrassing, for his little venture to fail now. He couldn’t return to the Inquisition, to _her_ , not now or ever. The beer was smooth and bitter, and he finished his mug with a health burp. He shook his head to get the thought of pointy ears and brown curls from his eyes, but when he opened them he found pointy ears across from him at the bar. Pointy ears and hay colored bangs, which were currently being blown upwards by an impatient gust of air.

“Well, Beardy, glad to see business is booming.” 

“Fuzzhead!” He rushed around the corner of the counter to catch Sera up in a hug to her great disapproval. 

“Put me down, you great lug! Ach you’re going to crush me and then how will I get the ladies.” But she reached her hands around his back to hug him fiercely back before he plopped her back down on her stool. 

“It’s good to see you, brat,” he said affectionately, tousling her mop of hair with one hand. “Can I get you anything?” 

“A pint of your finest!” Sera replied grinning. “Where is the rest of your patrons? I’m surprised no one else is here,” she remarked while Blackwall poured her a mug and refilled his own. 

“I’m more surprised that you’re here, Sera,” he chuckled. “What are you doing here? Doesn’t the Inquisition keep you close at hand?” 

Sera’s smile dimmed slightly, and she looked at the beer in her hands while sucking in a breath. “Actually, we’re camped nearby right now.” Her eyes flicked up to his. “Myself, Cass, Vivienne and Rowena.” 

Blackwall looked away awkwardly, and let out a deep sigh before twisting his lips into a grimace of a smile. “Well, here’s to opening nights and old friends,” he muttered, knocking his mug against Sera’s in a toast. 

“Hear, hear!” she said brightly, taking a deep drink from the clear beer. “Damn, that is good beer. This is a nice little place you have set up here, Beardy.” 

“You should have seen it when I first bought it. The place was about to fall down around my head.” He shook his head at her. “I have no clue what I’m doing here, Sera, and you realize this is all your fault.”

She laughed delightedly. “You were getting stale, old man. Good for you to experience something new, yeah? You should probably get yourself a barmaid or two, though.” Her eyebrows danced on her forehead. “Would really add to the appeal.” 

Blackwall laughed loudly, and the two fell into a companionable silence, nursing their beers. It was nice to sit and drink with a friend, and the tavern reminded him once more of Skyhold’s little drinking spot. It wasn’t until Sera had finished her beer, thumping her mug on the table, that their silence was broken. 

“Should be getting back,” she said quietly, sliding off of her stool. Blackwall felt his lips tighten.

“I s’pose she’d be mad at you for leaving camp,” he murmured, looking down at his hands. 

“Nah, she’ll never even notice I’m gone,” she chirped, and plunked a coin down on the table.   
 Blackwall chuckled softly, and pushed the coin back to Sera. “Don’t be silly. I would never make someone from the Inquisition pay for a drink, least of all you, Fuzzhead.” He smiled at her softly, before hanging his head again. “How is she?” 

He heard Sera buzz her lips on a sigh. “Well, she’s... She’s Rowena, she’s the Inquisitor, ain’t she? How do you think she’d be?” When Blackwall didn’t look up, she sighed again. “She’s busy, Blackwall. She’s busy, and she’s being killed by stupid politics, but she’s too proud to show it, ain’t she? She don’t smile like she used to. I’m no good at this kind of thing. I don’t know if she misse-”

“Sera. Don’t,” he barked roughly, rubbing a hand over his face and swallowing heavily. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He looked up, about to speak again when the front door burst open and in came Ulrich and a gang of townsfolk from the night. 

“Rainier!” Ulrich sang, dancing up to the bar, “A mug of your beer and some of that soup, please!” He cast a curious eye over Sera, who was looking at him with cocked eyebrows and twisted lips. 

“Just a moment, Ulrich, everyone,” Blackwall replied, turning back to Sera and following her as she walked out of the inn into the courtyard. She faced him with squinted and suspicious eyes.

“It’s Rainier now, Sera,” he said quietly. “At least, to these people it is.”

“Issit now.”

“It is. It’s time.” He smiled at her sadly, and caught her up again in another big hug. “Maker’s balls girl, I miss you. Next time you’re close by...”

Sera squeaked out a laugh and poked him viciously in the side so that he let her go with a softly muttered _oof_. “I’ll be back, and next time, I expect barmaids, _Rainier_.” 

Blackwall laughed. “Next time, there will be barmaids, Sera. I promise.” 

He watched her walk off into the darkness, before sighing again and turning back to the inn. His inn. The windows were clear and bright, and he could hear conversation and laughter. It looked warm and welcoming and right. He rubbed his hands on his trousers, pushed his hair behind his ears, and walked into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are shorter chapters or longer chapters better? I can't decide...


End file.
